


Oasis

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Growing Old Together, Hotel Renovations, Hotels, M/M, Post-Series, Sharing a Bed, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few miles to the west of Clines Corners, Sam skids to a stop on the side of Interstate 40. Soon, the Desert Palms Motel is in their possession, with the last of their money and a dream in their heads.</p><p>She's ugly, but she's <i>their</i> ugly. And Dean can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oasis

**Author's Note:**

> MARCH 2018: This has been updated to reflect my recently writing style, so basically just edited for pronouns and punctuation. I just really love this story ;A;

A few miles to the west of Clines Corners, Sam skids to a stop on the side of Interstate 40.

Dean nearly flies through the windshield and Castiel startles awake on the back bench, barely managing to stop himself from falling into the foot well. Dean’s watch reads a little after three in the afternoon; they still have an hour to Santa Rosa, and another few to Dalhart where their next motel waits. Another night on an unforgiving mattress with even more unforgiving backs, all three of them ready to collapse into their own beds for the first time in three weeks.

Unless, Sam plans on staying here, of all places: a dilapidated motel with a degraded sign reading Desert Palms Motel sits alongside the road, her roof caved in in places, front windows busted out and dusted with decades’ worth of dirt and debris. An old Cadillac is parked outside one of the dozen rooms, rusted and patinated under the southwestern sun. The front door is gone, from what Dean can tell, the lobby empty and gutted, probably similar to the rest of the rooms.

The Impala’s engine creaks as Sam shuts her off, hand still on the key fob. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, glancing between Dean and the motel with hopeful eyes.

Dean knows what he’s getting at, or at least he thinks he does. Sam’s been thinking of moving for the last few weeks, bringing up the conversation whenever Castiel is in the room, just so Dean doesn’t snap like the first time. “We’re living in a literal bunker, Dean,” Sam had announced, arms flailing about, Dean with his folded over his chest. “When was the last time we got to sit on a front porch or do anything that didn’t involve being elbow deep in some poor bastard’s guts?”

Unfortunately, Sam had a point—and still does, the more Dean thinks about it. The only fresh air they breathe is outside when they leave Lebanon and head wherever the next case is, whether it be across the country or close to home. Even the HVAC they installed can only do so much, and Dean’s skin crawls whenever he’s cooped up in there for more than a week at a time. There’s no sunlight, no hope so deep in the ground, away from civilization, in a city that should have lost its zip code years ago. He’s starting to understand why Castiel stays in the conservatory most of the time or with the telescope—the last vestiges of life, all visible through closed windows.

“But—here?” Dean asks, brows furrowed. Between them, Castiel leans against the bench seat, eyeing the aging relic to their left. “You wanna live here?”

“Not right now.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Just… think about it. We could remodel it, set up shop. Go legit, Dean.”

Legit—nothing about their lives has ever been legit. Considering their death certificates are still shoved in some far off file folder in some city he doesn't even know the name of, _they_ aren’t even legit. How did Sam expect to buy that hunk of crap, and under what name did he expect them to do it under? It’s farfetched—completely off their radar.

But of course, Castiel agrees with him, nudging Dean’s shoulder with his elbow. “If you paid for everything in cash, there’s no reason for anyone to suspect either of you.”

“Cash,” Dean scoffs. “Where do you expect us to get cash, Cas? Last I checked, I was down to my last hundred and Sammy’s got—”

“Three grand.” Both Dean and Castiel turn to him, Sam’s face the picture of smugness personified. Three thousand—and Sam never told him? “I cashed out a few scholarships from Stanford before you showed up, and I’ve already gone through two just being on the road.”

Dean blinks. Ten years, and Sam’s had that much money lying around? Where, in a box under his mattress? In his duffel in the back of the Impala and countless other cars? In a post office box in Lawrence? Where? “And you’re just sharing that with the class now?”

“Shouldn’t you care about the fact we have money?” Slapping his hand on the steering wheel, Sam turns back to the motel, a tumbleweed rolling across whatever’s left of the parking lot. “Think about it, Dean. You and Cas’ve been climbing the walls for the past few months, and I’m sure none of us wanna die in a library.”

It makes sense. Still, it’s easier in theory than in practice. Lying in bed two nights later, Dean turns his head to Castiel, the Angel still awake and reading a dusty novel previously crammed on Dean’s bookshelf. “Do you think we should do it?” he asks, catching Castiel’s eye beneath the thick rim of his glasses. “Get out of here, I mean.”

“It sounds like the most reasonable option,” Castiel says and dog-ears his page, setting it in his lap.

A few gray hairs tickle his jaw and span out behind his ears, growing more and more visible as the weeks pass, the bags under his eyes deepening, more pronounced than ever. He looks his age—they both do, considering. But this is Castiel’s choice, to let himself age like Dean and Sam. Dean stopped trying to hide his gray hairs two years ago, when Amara left and the Angel’s took control, leaving Castiel in the aftermath as a Watcher with no permanent residence.

For the most part, it’s been quiet. Aside from the occasional hunt, the two of them don’t do much. Castiel sleeps in Dean’s bed and holds him until the artificial morning light, and neither he nor Dean speak a word of it.

Well, until Sam woke up to Castiel spooning him in Tupelo last year. Now, it’s just something they do. That they should’ve been doing years ago.

“I don’t…” Dean stops, swallows. Sitting up, he palms his eyes, wincing as stars begin to bloom in his vision. “I like it here, though. Pretty sure we haven’t even figured out where half of these halls go, but… This ain’t the life I wanted to settle into.”

“It was an ideal place starting out,” Castiel sighs and removes his glasses, setting them atop his book. “But it’s become more of a burden than a necessity. We don’t use the tomes anymore, and we haven’t felt any demonic activity since the Angels left.” He looks to Dean, eyes dim in the lamplight. “I don’t think we have anything to hide from.”

They don’t, not anymore. Still, it takes Dean another week to come around, long enough for Sam to find an online auction for foreclosed and abandoned properties in New Mexico, listing numerous homes and businesses and hotels that have been abandoned, all slated for demolition. Five days before Halloween, they head out with the last of Sam’s cash stuffed in a duffel and enough clothes to last them a week, if necessary. Dean’s back hurts before he even reaches his car.

Standing in front of the courthouse in Albuquerque, Dean feels underdressed amongst the crowd; many of the men wear casual suits, and two or three couples don jeans and button-downs. Castiel stands with his arms crossed at his side, occasionally scratching the beard he’s been growing out, looking oddly haggard in the group of clean-shaven forty-somethings. Dean’s not looking any better, and even Sam is letting himself go, his hair past his shoulders now, auburn scruff decorating his face. Dean rubs his own in silent comparison, scratching a spot by his lip; Castiel tracks the movement, just enough of a smirk visible to leave Dean feeling giddy.

 _We’re getting too old for this_ , he thinks, and turns his eyes to the auctioneer.

The Desert Palms Motel sells for eight-hundred at considerably less than asking, but at least someone had been willing to take it off their hands. Sam forks over the cash inside and receives the land grant, all thirty acres of sand and dirt and rot, all their own. The first piece of land they’ve ever had in their name. Dean drives back to Lebanon later that afternoon, stopping along the way at their new property and pulling off into the parking lot, dust kicking up behind the Impala’s dirtied tires.

She’s ugly. Still as ugly as she was when they first passed by, but now she’s their ugly. “She has potential,” Castiel tells Dean under the lobby awning, his eyes to the rusty, corrugated roof. He runs a finger over a pylon and pulls it away, coming back with dirt older than Dean and Sam both. “Is this what you really want to do?”

Dean isn’t sure. He hasn’t been sure since they left the bunker, since Sam stopped at the motel almost two weeks ago. But Dean can do this: he can work with his hands, build something from the ground up, busy himself instead of wondering where the next case is, wondering if there’s someone else to save. Dean glances around the front façade and lets out a sigh, contemplative. He can do this—they all can. Together. “I’ll try if you do.”

Castiel just smiles and takes Dean’s hands, uncaring of the desert sun or the sand in the air, dusting their hair. They can make the Desert Palms home. Their home.

It takes some covert organizing and about a hundred phone calls, but they arrange an inventory sale to over three dozen hunters from all across the United States, solely to finance their new operation. They need new siding, cleaning materials, mattresses, bedding, kitchenettes, window glass and wall units. More than they can afford out of pocket, but hunters are willing to pay a price for the things they need. And, apparently so are universities and museums when Sam lets them in on just what books they have stashed away.

Castiel helps arrange items by significance and worth, and the pieces too priceless to let go are all hidden underneath Dean’s bed, away from prying eyes. Sam corrals people like the auctioneer he wasn’t meant to be. And Dean, Dean sells the show, makes sure people stay interested and take what they want and, admittedly, don't need when the day’s done. But they’re going to good homes—homes where people can use them for good, to fight whatever monsters lurk in Podunk towns and look into the lore of times gone by. They’ll use it more than he and Sam and Castiel ever have.

The bunker is almost entirely cleared out a week later, and Dean spends one morning counting dollar bills and arranging them by worth. Twenties, tens, hundreds—Rachel left him two gold certificates, worth in and of themselves a fortune. There’s enough to rebuild the motel if they scrimp by, and maybe some left over to repave the parking lot and rewire the front sign. If they play their cards right, they can probably open by the summer, just in time for roadtrippers to start their journey across the States, reliving life on the highway that once was.

It sounds good in his head—if only it’ll stay that way.

They’re officially moved out by November, the last few cars from the motor pool sold save for an early model F100, steel blue and beautiful. They stow the remaining items from the bunker that Castiel had hid away in the back of a U-Haul trailer—indecipherable manuscripts, obscene statues lost to time, cursed objects they’ve yet to burn, along with mattresses and beds and the tables in the war room, chairs and desks and dressers and more—and head out on the first of November, leaving their life behind.

Dean chucks the key into the forest before they go. Any luck, and the ground will swallow it whole, never to be seen again.

Their first stop, two days later when they park outside of the Desert Palms and unhook their trailer in the back lot, is to buy sheetrock and shingles. The foundation and exterior walls, from Dean’s inspection, are mostly sound, but the ceilings and interior walls and doors need replacing, and fast. Castiel and Sam work on decor while Dean purchases what has to be an insane amount of wallboard from Home Depot, along with hammers and boxes upon boxes of nails, hand saws and table says, anything with a sharp edge that can cut through drywall and shiplap.

All the while, Dean plays fantasies through his head, imagines the process of ripping everything out and tossing out the old, installing new fixtures, putting beds together. It’s probably more work than he can handle, but it gives him hope, something to hold on to. He’s never gotten to build a home before, scratch his name in the walls of something that’s his. The Impala has been Dean’s only true home for so long, but she’s grown weary in recent years, her suspension finally calling it a day, frame exhausted. She’s traveled hundreds of thousands of miles—she deserves a break.

They all do.

Dean clears a patch of the lobby floor and sweeps it free of dust before they drag their mattresses through the back door, laying them flat atop the clay tiles and draping them in sheets and comforters. It’s no where close to home, but it’s what they have, at least until they get the bedrooms up and functioning. Sam needs to call the electric company and get the power turned back on. Dean needs to call the plumber in Albuquerque, see if they would even send someone out that far. Castiel has dreams, plans for their new venture.

Inevitably, Castiel becomes their rock, the sole presence both Dean and Sam can hold on to, to keep them going on sweltering days and chilly nights.

The first week, they sleep as close as they possibly can together, huddled in pitch darkness, a cold wind occasionally blowing through the busted windows. Sam snores at Castiel’s back. Castiel doesn’t sleep much, mostly stares at Dean when Dean awakes from the sound of a truck downshifting or a car roaring past. Dean just holds him close and buries his face in his chest, like Castiel’s the one thing that can keep him sane.

“I’m scared,” Dean confides into the bare skin of Castiel’s neck while Sam sleeps, voice tinged with fatigue. He’s been homeless all of his life, but now, left to his own devices, Dean has never felt so alone, so lost in the world. “I’m scared this is it, that this is where we’ll fail, or we’ll die, and we’ll be stuck living in Baby for the rest of our lives.” He sighs, broken. Castiel strokes down his spine, comfort in the dark. “Tell me I’m not losing it. Tell me what we’ve done is the right thing.”

“You’re not a failure,” Castiel tells him instead and nuzzles his forehead. “You won’t fail. Neither of you will.”

The words are enough to carry Dean through to the next day, and every night—after they’ve torn out walls and gutted bathrooms, after they’ve rerouted electrical lines and installed sheetrock, after they’ve torn up the floors and laid down fresh carpet or tile—Castiel tells him the same thing and holds him close, until the bone-deep exhaustion in Dean’s bones gives way to fresh hope, until he can sleep easily in the arms of someone who cares. Someone who understands.

December comes and the overbearing heat gives way to snow, in thick blankets. Dean replaces the shingles dressed in a massive coat from Goodwill and two pairs of jeans, day by day averting potential disaster with every hole patched and every nail punched. Sam rotates shifts when he’s not replacing walls with Castiel, leaving Dean to help lay tiles in each of the twelve bathrooms, including their living quarters off the lobby.

The previous owner had a southwestern theme, decorated with cactuses and paintings of mustangs and red rocked arches. Walls and floors painted a musty brown, it had been an eyesore from the beginning—just what travelers needed, more sand in the middle of the desert. Castiel opts for a more Key West way of life and lays down light blue patchwork tiles in some of the bathrooms, bringing more light into a previously dismal space.

Slowly, the walls in each room turn various shades of sea green and sky blue and pale yellow, all with different yet matching wallpaper, all under Castiel’s watchful eye. It’s tacky at first, the juxtaposition of blue and green against the brown backdrop of their home, but it starts to grow on Dean the longer he looks at it, the longer he’s forced to stare when they start installing carpet and furniture.

Dean’s favorite room, when January comes and the landscape is still dyed white with snow, is room Seven. Light brown paint adorns the walls, the floors laid in the same tile as room Four and One, red clay hexagons all laid by his hand. It feels warm just being there, especially after they’ve put in the wood bed frames and bedside tables, some rooms with king beds, some doubles. Seven is a king room, the bedding off-white and airy, ornamented with brown and blue pillows.

Dean feels giddy when Castiel approves of his choices, praising him with prolonged touches and quiet “good job, Dean’s,” when they’re alone. Because if there’s one thing he’s learned working on this project, it’s that Sam is everywhere.

They lose power through a large portion of February, the area inundated with the worst winter weather the area has seen in decades. Though many of the rooms are furnished and the glass has been replaced in all the windows, it all does nothing to stave off the cold seeping in through every crack imaginable.

Their bedrooms, two individual rooms located behind an Employee’s Only door in the lobby, have yet to be finished, the plumbing in Dean and Castiel’s still non-functioning after the pipes burst during the last freeze. Sam’s is the only one remotely livable, leaving the three of them to huddle together on his mattress for warmth. It may not be ideal, but it beats staying in the other rooms where the snowbanks are probably blocking the doors.

One of Dean’s last projects, coinciding with repaving the parking lot and fixing the awning out front so Baby isn’t covered in snow, is fixing the kitchen. Living on diner food and running back and forth between the city two to three times a day isn’t doing any of them favors, and Dean swears if he doesn’t eat something that doesn’t have grease in it sometime soon, he might keel over on the spot.

It’s a small thing, probably used at one point for continental breakfasts: industrial cooktops and ovens and sinks, overhang lights with the bulbs long since fried, and chrome that desperately needs polishing. He finishes it in a week and adds new appliances, including a microwave and dual-swing door refrigerator, and a freezer he could stuff a cow in if he wanted. Sam and Castiel splurge on smaller items that soon litter the countertops, including a waffle maker and a griddle.

For some reason, they have a snow cone maker. Dean doesn't ask why, just indulges himself when the fridge finally starts making ice.

Sam surprises them in mid-March with a gigantic box delivered to their address. He drags the thing in through the lobby door and unpacks it with a pocket knife, all while Dean and Castiel watch in curiosity. “I did some digging,” Sam mentions once he cuts open the packing tape. “Desert Palms wasn’t a big motel, but they had to order their signage from somewhere, right? I checked the records a few weeks ago, and they custom-ordered their neon from a shop out in Texas back in the ‘50’s.” He strips away the cardboard and lets it fall to the floor, motioning with open palms at the monstrosity sitting there. “They still had the design on file.”

It’s gorgeous. At least five feet tall and six wide, ‘Desert Palms Motel’ sits in the middle of their lobby, the glass-blown letters painted blue in front of a sandy beach, while a green-and-brown palm tree rests beside it, a string of stars leading up its trunk. An arrow with “No Vacancy” rests at the bottom inside a large arrow pointed left. And yet, the only thing on Dean’s mind is, “How much did you shell out?”

Sam shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “The blueprints were old, Dean. And they didn’t have some of those colors in stock anymore—”

“—Sammy—”

“A grand, alright?” Dean deflates; it’s less than he was thinking, but still more than he would’ve been willing to spend if Sam had consulted him about it in the first place. “But I got them to work in free shipping, so it works out.”

“I forgot about the sign when we were working on the building,” Castiel says, now kneeling before the neon marvel, inspecting the glass rods for defects. He comes back with nothing and wipes his hands on his jeans, wonder in his eyes. “How are we supposed to install it, though?”

The answer comes in the form of a crane a week later, with Dean renting it out from a construction company for the day. None of them have experience wielding heavy machinery—then again, none of them also knew how to replace electrical wiring or fix the septic tank, either. Castiel sits in the driver’s seat while Dean climbs three quarters of the way up the pole, hooked to it by a few straps of nylon and a prayer.

The original sign comes off without a hitch, most of its bolts and screws rusted and corroded to the point of nonexistence; it falls with a clatter, Sam barely dodging the glass and neon that shatters on impact. He’ll apologize for nearly killing his brother later; for now, Dean laughs and hugs the pole and tries not to look down.

Below him, Dean half-watches Sam and Castiel strap the new Desert Palms sign onto the crane lift, mostly glancing at the scenery around him, the faint outline of the Clines Corners Retail Center visible on the horizon. Occasionally, a semi or a mini van passes by, never once paying them any mind.

That was them once, Dean muses as he watches an old Camaro pass by, her pristine finish dulled by the clouds overhead and the sun struggling to break through. On the path to nowhere, lost with and hopeless.

Now, Dean is hanging from a pole. He deserves to be honked at, at this rate.

Just before Castiel climbs back into the crane’s chair, an older couple in a Ford Explorer stop by, their SUV treading through the snow melting on the shoulder of the road and stopping just before the portico. They’re probably old enough to be Dean’s grandparents, their son in the driver’s seat now climbing out, his parents in tow. They’re rattling on about something, barely audible until they walk up to Sam and shake his hand, following with Castiel. “We had our honeymoon here,” the Husband announces loud enough for Dean to hear, hands tucked into his jacket pockets with his ears covered by a beanie. His Wife leans into his side, much to their Son’s embarrassment.

“That was over forty years ago,” the Wife adds and turns to look at the motel, now mostly complete. A few minor improvements and an application for a business license, and they’ll be able to set up shop in time for the snow to finally leave. “We drive out to Santa Monica every year, and this place has always been in such terrible spirits.”

“But we’re glad to see someone’s taking care of it, now.” The Husband nods and wipes his eyes, not even trying to hide his emotions. “We’d love to see this place when the sign’s lit up again.”

Sam points to Dean up on the pole, garnering a laugh from everyone, Castiel included. Dean just rolls his eyes. “We're trying to get it up now, if you’d wanna watch?” Sam asks.

Upon their ecstatic agreement and Dean’s thumbs up, Castiel cranks the crane’s engine and begins to lift the weighted sign, the connection post high above Dean’s head by the time he can grab a hold of it and hoist it down. Firmly in place, Dean begins the final assembly by connecting the electrical system and bolting the sign in place, giving it a firm shake before he deems it stable. Castiel leaps from the crane’s cabin once Dean’s safely back on the ground, promptly throwing him into an embrace that nearly crushes his lungs. Behind them, the older couple laughs, their son the loudest of all.

“You’re acting like I was gonna die,” Dean wheezes once Castiel lets him go, Castiel’s gloved hands on his cheeks.

Castiel just grins and shakes his head, eyes alight. “It was particularly dangerous,” he says, amused. “I would hate to see you hurt yourself more than you already have.”

Dean can’t shake the laugh that bubbles up through him, or the flush that heats his cheeks, probably glowing. “Yeah, well, if I fall, at least you’ll be there to laugh at me.” Castiel agrees and taps his cheek with warm fingers, and Dean just falls into it, sighing with content.

Sam picks that precise moment to shout at them all to look up at the sign, now lit up against the backdrop of the winter sky. Dean barely realizes he’s shouting when dawning hits him that it works, that this is the moment he’s been waiting for for the past few months. All the sleeping on the floor and eating artery-clogging food and having to piss in a hole in the ground was actually worth something, and the proof is there before his eyes, in the shape of a retro motel sign with No Vacancy lit up underneath.

The older couple are teary eyed, their son at their side, hiding his emotion behind his hand. Tucked under Dean’s arm, Castiel whispers praise in his ear and, arm around Dean’s waist, clutches his hip tight, a promise. Sam comes running before Castiel can kiss Dean’s cheek and throws Dean into a long-limbed hug, all while Castiel beams in the background, too giddy to care if Sam had broken one of his ribs.

Genuinely, Dean can’t bring himself to care either. Because this—this is something he can live with. A family, a roof over his head, and a bed with his name on it. It isn’t much, but it’s his.

Code inspection day comes and goes with more stress than probably intended, and after some wheedling their way through getting a business license, they open shop just in time for Easter. They’re down to their last thousand, that money in reserve for landscaping if they can find a decent nursery that won’t rob them like they last time they tried. Dean and Sam alternate the day shift at the front desk with Castiel taking over during the night, one of them always free in the instance something goes wrong or someone needs assistance with their luggage.

For the first few days, it’s quiet. Word of mouth only travels so far in the middle of nowhere, and it’s not until Castiel discovers Yelp that they finally manage to get a decent following. Social media isn’t Dean’s forte, but Sam and Castiel take to it faster than any of them expected. They have a Facebook and a Twitter page now, complete with pictures from Dean’s phone and daily updates on room rates: always under sixty dollars, always with a free breakfast from five to ten in the morning. All those years of living in rank motel rooms have finally paid off, and if there’s anything Dean knows in life, it’s that at the end of the day, having a decent place to rest your head can make a world of difference.

It’s not the life Dean figured he would be living years after giving up hunting. Most hunters fade into obscurity or die before they reach his ripe old age of forty. Some go straight, some travel to Mexico and never come back. They haven’t heard from Lacy since she headed to Manitoba two years ago. But his life has never been typical, Dean figures. Out of everything, he should’ve been dead years ago, rotting in Hell for eternity with no hope for his soul. Sam should’ve moved on and started a family, graduated college. Castiel should’ve never met him, continued to live in Heaven with no prospects, no reason to visit earth.

Now, a few months’ shy of the Desert Palm’s first anniversary, Dean lays in bed on a Tuesday morning in January, blearily watching Castiel finally trudge into the doorway, bones heavy with sleep. “It’s your birthday,” Castiel slurs when he collapses into the memory foam, arm slung over Dean’s hip under the sheets. Slowly, Dean blinks into awareness and clutches Castiel’s hand, drawing it up to his lips to kiss his fingers. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“You got me this,” Dean says, a broad answer, and kisses him again over the silver band on his ring finger, still as gleaming as it was last August. He swallows and stares at the bedside clock, the digital numbers reading 4:53. He’ll have to get up and cook breakfast soon, man the check in desk if Sam isn’t already there. For now, Dean continues, “You got me my life back. And Sam’s, and you helped with this place…” He keeps his eyes closed against the emotion welling in his chest. “You got me you.”

“I’m not much of a present,” Castiel snuffles, tugging Dean closer until they’re pressed flush.

“You’ll always be my present,” Dean whispers. Turning over, he pulls Castiel into a kiss, closed mouthed, still too early to have to deal with morning breath or the smell of chocolate on Castiel’s lips.

Castiel smiles against him and opens his eyes, just long enough to watch the sincerity flicker across Dean’s face, his own softening in turn. “We didn’t celebrate last year,” he states, remorseful. “You could take the day off, if you wanted.”

Dean ducks his head and grins into Castiel’s cheek, ignoring the way Castiel’s beard scratches his face when Castiel rubs there, practically purring. “Gotta at least do breakfast,” Dean chuckles. “And make sure Sammy doesn’t burn all the waffles again.”

“I recall you’ve burnt your fair share also.” Weakly patting his hip, Castiel settles further into the mattress, somehow managing to fight off sleep. He sleeps more now, now that his Grace is next to nothing, all but his wings stripped away with his demotion. Castiel doesn’t seem to mind either way, taking humanity in stride the longer he lives under their roof. And he’ll die alongside them one day, in his sleep with Dean and Sam at his side.

And maybe, just maybe, this will be their heaven too.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Castiel murmurs before finally nodding off, breaths soft against his lips.

Dean smiles and kisses him again, stroking across Castiel’s cheek with the back of his hand, letting the silver band trail across his skin. “Thank you,” he whispers, and quiets. “For everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I got this idea the other day, what if Dean and Sam and Cas bought a motel out in the middle of nowhere and went legit and started a business? So, here you go. Domestic homebuilding with married Dean and Cas and everything is happy. Hope you had fun! Now, back to writing my books. [crying in the background]
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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